


old-fashioned

by dashcommaslash



Series: dizzy [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BDSM, F/F, Femslash, Fisting, Glasses, Moneypenny and Bond did it in Shanghai, Moneypenny is a genius, Rape Roleplay, References to Canon-Typical Violence, butch!Bond, minor Eve/Q, somehow this got feelings, sometimes the old ways are best, the sex is totally consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashcommaslash/pseuds/dashcommaslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has a type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

Q has a type. Not a fetish, not a--she doesn’t have an xtube channel devoted to, well, and sexual compatibility is a lot more important, isn’t it, but just, loosely speaking, a general type. It’s a type she doesn’t expect to encounter much among 00s, not the women, anyway, given what she understands of the job’s requirements. Which is a good thing for her, given--what she understands of the job’s requirements.

And she’s seen Bond’s photograph, and she’s seen Bond’s obit, even. The woman is very, very finely turned out, and yes, she knows, Royal Navy, but she also knows from her visits to Sandhurst that you can’t make those sorts of assumptions. Even M got hard on the job, sending men to die before breakfast for thirty years and more; she wasn’t born that way. So that’s why Q isn’t prepared, on a restless Saturday morning, for the way Bond walks into the gallery, like–-well.

********************

"I didn't know you were such a visionary," says Q. "I thought you were more on the, um, logistical side of things."

"I thought you were straight," says Eve.

"No, you didn't."

"No," says Eve. "Anyway, this _is_ logistics."

***********************************************

Which is how photos of Q trussed up on Eve's bed in Y-fronts and braces end up spilling out of Eve's purse onto the bar the next time she buys Bond a drink. "Oops," she says, collecting them at a glacial pace.

Bond intercepts the top five and leafs through equally slowly, as apparently disinterested as if she were shuffling a deck of cards, but a muscle tenses in that granite jaw. Q is wearing lipstick on her wide, sarcastic mouth, because Eve insisted that Bond is old-fashioned, but also her glasses, because, well, Bond is old-fashioned.

"So," Bond says, voice low with amusement. "You and Q."

Eve shrugs.

"You have catholic tastes. I didn't know you swam in the kiddie pool."

"I'm 32, but thanks, Bond. And I like nice things. She's not a little girl."

Bond laughs. "I can see that, Miss Moneypenny."

***********************************************

Which is how Q ends up waking with a start at one in the morning with a half-melted Walther sliding across her desk like something out of the Tate Modern and landing with a crash on the floor.

"I brought you something, sweetheart," says Bond.

"I didn't know Dali sculpted," says Q, blinking dry eyes. Bond's forty-four and her nose has been broken three times. She's been nearly drowned on this mission and just got off a thirteen-hour flight--Q should know. Fuck her for looking like that. And double- and triple-fuck her for calling her superior  _sweetheart_ , but Q doesn't say anything about that because it's probably a reference to an American film from Bond's youth, and anyway she'll look like an idiot.

"No," says Bond, cheerful as you please. "The drive. Thought you deserved something special for your sweet sixteen. But if you don't want it, I'm sure there are plenty of girls--"

And when Q reaches for the little thumb drive, Bond holds it high above her head.

Which is how Q somehow ends up on Bond's lap at one-thirty in the morning with her matted hair twisted in Bond's fist and her glasses falling somewhere near the Walther.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape role-play, not for the faint of heart. I've adjusted the tags. 
> 
> Notes for practice: Do this kind of play only with someone you trust and a safeword. A three-tiered safeword (e.g. red/yellow/green) lets the bottom ask for more/less without disrupting the scene. But don't be afraid to stop the scene by using "red" if you start to get freaked out. Don't skip aftercare just because Bond and Q kind of do.

Bond sleeps on her stomach, head turned to the window, and Q traces the long muscles that frame her spine, runs fingers through the golden pageboy. You would never know it's a dye job; Bond's hair's been white since Venice.  Q would like to kick the frustrated handler--a man, no doubt--who wrote the words _cold passion_ in Bond's file. She watches the hunger in Bond’s face, blue eyes dark, when Q takes her wrist-deep and lets her feel _everything_. She sees that the laugh lines don’t come from laughing.

*******************************************************

 

“Oh, stop, don't make me," whines Q, her voice breaking, and she bucks so hard that Bond actually does stop, obviously alarmed--"What color?"--and she snaps, “Green.”

Soon Q is wriggling on her duvet and singing an endless stream of "God, green, stop, please, fuck, Bond, don’t, green, fuck, please," as Bond shoves into her. And why is it always so sweet like this, why can't it last and last, and she barrels through the first few flickers of orgasm, holding out, drawing it out, and she knows Bond doesn't know if she's going to come or not, doesn't know she's already there, and is whispering her own stream of filth about Q. "Come for me," she says, but Q hates that, so she shakes her head and Bond says, "Slut," and twists a nipple and yeah, that's better. Then Bond hooks an ankle over her shoulder and finally the angle is just right and the brightest sunrise of all time is dawning, molten, where Bond's hitting her and she has no breath to scream.

She keeps her eyes covered, after, so she can watch it recede. So they aren't lying about 30. Of all statistical medians, she's never imagined slotting into that one, not after all the things she's done. She wonders how long it will last, decides not to ask Bond.

At last she opens her eyes, peeking through splayed fingers at Bond, who still has an arm under Q's hip and whose mouth tastes pleasantly salty even though she hasn't. "Was that...okay?"

"Was it okay?"

"Do you mind doing that?" Q clarifies, embarrassed.

"Why would I mind?"

Q doesn't want to say the obvious thing, in case it hasn't yet occurred to Bond. Or in case it hasn't yet occurred to Bond that it's occurred to Q. Q mixes business and pleasure, yes, they all do, but she doesn't want Bond to think she's sat there on comms enjoying herself as some lowlife looks into Bond's gun and says, "Please don't." But she can't say that. So she settles for, "It's a little fucked up for some people."

Bond quirks a smile at her. "For some people," she repeats. As if they haven't done rough stuff before, she means. As if Bond isn't Bond, hasn't--and adds, slowly, "It gets you off."

It's clear that Bond thinks she has said the final word, so Q just says, "I suppose it's alright." She wants confirmation that Bond likes that, that Bond enjoys watching her, feeling her, but Q's not a total pillow queen, and she already knows what Bond means: _I like what it does to you._  

"I couldn't really tell," smirks Bond. "Did you like it?"

"I've had better," says Q. "But you do have a lovely cock, for someone your age." She reaches out, strokes the silicone prick lazily.

"It has a license to kill," observes Bond, and leans back against the headboard as Q rises to her knees.


End file.
